' 'Ere, 'ere, duckie,' she called out genially. 'What's all the fuss about? I'll 'ave all this put right in a jiffy. Just you show me where the mop cupboard is, and get me a bucket and a brush-'

As for Natasha - she was looking right through and past the dirt and disorder to the solid, bourgeois furniture she saw beneath it, the plush sofa, the what-not cabinet, the huge portrait-size framed photographs of M. Fauvel's grandfather and mother in stiff, beginning-of-the-century clothes, the harpsichord in one corner, the great tub with the plant in another, the lace on the sofa pillows, the chenille curtains, and the overstuffed chairs - comfort without elegance - and her heart yearned towards it. This was a home, and she had not been in one like it since she had left her own in Lyons.

'Oh, please,' she cried, 'may I remain and help? Would you permit it, monsieur?'

M. Fauvel went into a perfect hysteria of abject apologies - 'But mademoiselle - you of all people - in this pigsty, for which I could die of shame - to spoil those little hands - never in a thousand years could I permit-'

'Ow - come off it, dearie,' ordered Mrs Harris succinctly. 'Blimey, but all the thick 'eads ain't on our side of the Channel. Can't you see the girl WANTS WANTS to? Run along now and keep out of the way and let us get at it.' to? Run along now and keep out of the way and let us get at it.'

Dear me, Mrs Harris thought to herself as she and Natasha donned headcloths and ap.r.o.ns and seized upon brooms and dustcloths, Mrs Harris thought to herself as she and Natasha donned headcloths and ap.r.o.ns and seized upon brooms and dustcloths, French people are just like anyone else, plain and kind, only maybe a little dirtier. Now 'oo would have thought it after all one 'ears? French people are just like anyone else, plain and kind, only maybe a little dirtier. Now 'oo would have thought it after all one 'ears?

That particular evening, Natasha had a rendezvous for drinks with a count, an appointment for dinner with a duke, and a late evening date with an important politico. It gave her the most intense pleasure she had known since she came to Paris to leave the count standing and, with the professional and efficient Mrs Harris, make the dirt fly at number 18 Rue Dennequin, as it had never flown before.

It seemed no time at all before everything was in order again. The mantelpieces and furniture gleamed, the plant was watered, the beds stiff with clean sheets and pillow-cases, the ring around the bath tub banished, pots, pans, dishes, gla.s.ses, and knives and forks washed-up.

'Oh, it is good to be inside a home again, where one can be a woman and not just a silly little doll,' Natasha said to herself as she attacked the dust and cobweb salients in the corners and contemplated the horrors that M. Fauvel, manlike, had brushed under the carpet.

And as she stood there for a moment, reflecting upon the general hopelessness of the male species, she found herself suddenly touched by the plight of M. Fauvel and thought, That must be a fine sister he has, poor boy, and he is so ashamed That must be a fine sister he has, poor boy, and he is so ashamed - and suddenly in her mind's eye she saw herself holding this blond head with the blushing face and the white scar - surely acquired in some n.o.ble manner - to her breast while she murmured, 'Now, now, my little one, do not take on so. Now that I am here everything will be all right again.' And this to a perfect stranger she had seen only vaguely before as he appeared occasionally in the background of the establishment for which she worked. She stood stock-still for a moment with astonishment at herself, leaning upon her broom, the very picture of housewifely grace, to be discovered so by the sudden return of the enchanted M. Fauvel himself. - and suddenly in her mind's eye she saw herself holding this blond head with the blushing face and the white scar - surely acquired in some n.o.ble manner - to her breast while she murmured, 'Now, now, my little one, do not take on so. Now that I am here everything will be all right again.' And this to a perfect stranger she had seen only vaguely before as he appeared occasionally in the background of the establishment for which she worked. She stood stock-still for a moment with astonishment at herself, leaning upon her broom, the very picture of housewifely grace, to be discovered so by the sudden return of the enchanted M. Fauvel himself.

So busy had been the two women that neither had noticed the absence of the accountant until he suddenly re-appeared but half-visible behind the mountain of parcels with which he was laden.

'I thought that after such exhausting labours you might be hungry-' he explained. Then, regarding a dishevelled, smudged, but thoroughly contented Natasha, he stammered: 'Would you - could you - dare I hope that you might remain?'

The count and his date were already dead pigeons. Bang, bang, went both barrels and the duke and the politico joined him. With the utmost simplicity and naturalness, and quite forgetting herself, Natasha, or rather Mme Pet.i.tpierre of Lyons, threw her arms about M. Fauvel's neck and kissed him. 'But you are an angel to have thought of this, Andre I am ravenous. First I will allow myself a bath in that wonderful deep old tub upstairs and then we will eat and eat and eat.'

M. Fauvel thought too that he had never been so happy in his life. What an astonishing turn things had taken ever since - why, ever since that wonderful little Englishwoman had come to Dior's to buy herself a dress.

Mrs Harris had never tasted caviar before, a pate pate de de foie foie gras gras fresh from Strasbourg, but she very quickly got used to them both, as well as the lobster from the Pas-de-Calais and the eels from Lorraine in jelly. There was fresh from Strasbourg, but she very quickly got used to them both, as well as the lobster from the Pas-de-Calais and the eels from Lorraine in jelly. There was charcuterie charcuterie from Normandy, a whole cold roast from Normandy, a whole cold roast poulet de Bresse poulet de Bresse along with a crispy skinned duck from Nantes. There was a Cha.s.sagne Montrachet with the lobster and along with a crispy skinned duck from Nantes. There was a Cha.s.sagne Montrachet with the lobster and hors d'aeuvre hors d'aeuvre, champagne with the caviar, and Vosne Romanee with the fowl, while an Yquem decorated the chocolate cake.

Mrs Harris ate for the week before, for this, and the next as well. There had never been a meal like it before and probably never would again. Her eyes gleamed with delight as she crowed: 'Lumme, if there's anything I like it's a good tuck in.'

'The night without is heavenly,' said M. Fauvel, his eyes meltingly upon the sweet, well-fed-p.u.s.s.y-cat face of Natasha, 'perhaps afterwards we will let Paris show herself to us-'

'Ooof!' grunted Mrs Harris, stuffed to her wispy eyebrows. 'You two go. I've 'ad a day to end all days. I'll just stay 'ome 'ere and do the dishes and then get into me bed and try not to wake up back in Battersea.'

But now, a feeling of restraint and embarra.s.sment seemed suddenly to descend upon the two young people and which Mrs Harris in her state of repletion failed to notice. Had his guest consented to go, M. Fauvel was thinking, all would have been different, and the exuberance of the party plus the glorious presence of Natasha might have been maintained. But, of course, without this extraordinary person the thought of his showing Dior's star model the sights of Paris suddenly seemed utterly ridiculous.

To Natasha, Paris at night was the interior of a series of smoky boites boites, or expensive nightclubs, such as Dinazard, or Sheherazade, and of which she was heartily sick. She would have given much to have been enabled to stand on the Grand Terra.s.se of Le Sacre-Cur, under the starry night, and look out over these stars reflected in the sea of the light of Paris - and in particular with M. Fauvel at her side.

But with Mrs Harris's plumping for bed there seemed no further excuse for her presence. She had already intruded too much into his privacy. She had shamelessly pried into his quarters with broom and duster, seen the squalor in his sink, permitted herself the almost unthinkable intimacy of washing out his bath tub, and, in her exuberance, the even more unpardonable one of bathing in it herself.

She became suddenly overcome with confusion, and blushing murmured: 'Oh, no, no, no. I cannot, it is impossible. I am afraid I have an appointment. I must be going.'

M. Fauvel accepted the blow which was expected. 'Ah, yes yes ' ' he thought, 'you must return, little b.u.t.terfly, to the life you love best. Some count, marquis, duke, or even prince will be waiting for you. But at least I have had this one night of bliss and I should be content. he thought, 'you must return, little b.u.t.terfly, to the life you love best. Some count, marquis, duke, or even prince will be waiting for you. But at least I have had this one night of bliss and I should be content.' Aloud he murmurmured 'Yes, yes, of course, Mademoiselle has been too kind.'

He bowed, they touched hands lightly and their glances met and for a moment lingered. And this time the sharp knowing eyes of Mrs Harris twigged: 'Oho,' she said to herself, 'so that's 'ow it is. I should have went with them.'

But it was too late to do anything about it now and the fact was that she really was too stuffed to move. 'Well, good night, dears,' she said loudly and pointedly, and tramped up the stairs, hoping that with her presence removed they might still get together on an evening out. But a moment later she heard the front door opened and shut and then the clatter as the motor of Natasha's Simca came to life. Thus ended Mrs Ada 'Arris's first day in a foreign land and amidst a foreign people.

The following morning, however, when M. Fauvel proposed that in the evening he show her something of Paris, Mrs Harris lost no time in suggesting that Natasha be included in the party. Fl.u.s.tered, M. Fauvel protested that sightseeing was not for such exalted creatures as Mile Natasha.

'Garn,' scoffed Mrs Harris. 'What makes you think she's different from any other young girl when there is an 'andsome man about? She'd 'ave gone with you last night if you 'ad 'ad the brains to ask 'er. You just tel 'er I said she was to come.'

That morning the two of them encountered briefly upon the grey carpeted stairs at Dior. They paused for an instant uncomfortably. M. Fauvel managed to stammer: 'Tonight I shall be showing Mrs Harris something of Paris. She has begged that you would accompany us.'

'Oh,' murmured Natasha, 'Madame Harris has asked? She wishes it? Only she?'

M. Fauvel could only nod dumbly. How could he in the chill austerity of the grand staircase of the House of Christian Dior cry out 'Ah, no, it is I who wish it, crave it, desire it, with all my being. It is I who worship the very nap of the carpet on which you stand.'

Natasha finally said: 'If she desires it then, I will come. She is adorable, that little woman.'

'At eight then.'

'I will be there.'

They continued on their routes, he up, she down.

The enchanted night duly took place. It began for the three of them with a ride up the Seine on a bateau-mouche bateau-mouche to a riverside restaurant in a tiny suburb. With a wonderful sense of tact and feeling M. Fauvel avoided those places where Mrs Harris might have felt uncomfortable, the expensive luxury and glitter spots, and never knew how happy Natasha herself felt in this more modest environment. to a riverside restaurant in a tiny suburb. With a wonderful sense of tact and feeling M. Fauvel avoided those places where Mrs Harris might have felt uncomfortable, the expensive luxury and glitter spots, and never knew how happy Natasha herself felt in this more modest environment.

This was a little family restaurant. The tables were of iron, the tablecloths checkered, and the bread wonderfully crisp and fresh. Mrs Harris took it all in, the simple people at neighbouring tables, the gla.s.sy, shimmering surface of the river with boating parties gliding about and the strains of accordion music drifting over from the water, with a deep sigh of satisfaction. She said: 'Lumme, if it ain't just like 'ome. Sometimes, on a hot night, me friend Mrs b.u.t.terfield and I go for a ride up the river and drop in for a pint at a little plyce near the brewery.'

But at the eating of a snail she firmly baulked. She examined them with interest in their steaming fragrant sh.e.l.ls. The spirit was willing but her stomach said no.

'I can't,' she finally confessed, 'not arter seeing them walkin' about.'

From that time on, unspoken, the nightly gathering of the three for roamings about Paris became taken for granted. In the daytime, while they worked, except for her fittings which took place at eleven-thirty in the mornings, and her tidying of Fauvel's premises, Mrs Harris was free to explore the city on her own, but the evenings were heralded by the arrival of Natasha in her Simca, and they would be off.

Thus Mrs Harris saw Paris by twilight from the second landing of the Tour Eiffel, by milky moonlight from Le Sacre-Cur, and waking up in the morning at dawn when the market bustle at Les Halles began, and after a night of visiting this or that part of the city of never-ending wonder, they breakfasted there on eggs and garlic sausages surrounded by workmen, market porters, and lorry drivers.

Once, instigated somewhat in a spirit of mischief by Natasha, they took Mrs Harris to the Revue des Nudes Revue des Nudes, a cabaret in the Rue Blanche, but she was neither shocked nor impressed. There is a curiously cosy kind of family atmosphere at some of these displays; whole groups, including grandmothers, fathers, mothers, and the young come up from the country for a celebration or anniversary of some kind, bringing along a picnic hamper; they order wine and settle down to enjoy the fun.

Mrs Harris felt right at home in this milieu. She did not consider the parade of st.i.tchless young ladies immoral. Immoral in her code was doing someone the dirty. She peered interestedly at the somewhat beefy naiads and remarked: 'Coo - some of them don't arf want a bit o' slimming, what?' Later when an artiste adorned with no more than a cache cache s.e.xe s.e.xe consisting of a silver fig leaf performed rather a strenuous dance, Mrs Harris murmured: 'Lumme, I don't see 'ow she does it.' consisting of a silver fig leaf performed rather a strenuous dance, Mrs Harris murmured: 'Lumme, I don't see 'ow she does it.'

'Does which?' queried M. Fauvel absent-mindedly, for his attention was riveted upon Natasha.

'Keeps that thing on 'oppin about like that.'

M. Fauvel blushed crimson and Natasha shouted with laughter, but forbore to explain.

And in this manner, Mrs Harris lost all fear of the great foreign capital, for they showed her a life and a city teeming with her own kind of people - simple, rough, realistic, and hard-working, and engaged all of them in the same kind of struggle to get along as she herself back home.

FREE to wander where she would during the day in Paris except for her fittings, Mrs Harris never quite knew where her footsteps would lead her. It was not the glittering shopping sections of the Champs elysees, the Faubourg St Honore, and the Place Vendome that interested her, for there were equally shimmering and expensive shopping sections in London which she never visited. But she loved people and odd to wander where she would during the day in Paris except for her fittings, Mrs Harris never quite knew where her footsteps would lead her. It was not the glittering shopping sections of the Champs elysees, the Faubourg St Honore, and the Place Vendome that interested her, for there were equally shimmering and expensive shopping sections in London which she never visited. But she loved people and odd quartiers quartiers, the beautiful parks, the river, and the manner in which life was lived in the poorer section by the inhabitants of the city.

She explored thus the Left Bank and the Right and eventually through accident stumbled upon a certain paradise in the Middle, the Flower Market located by the Quai de la Corse on the ile de la Cite.

Often back home Mrs Harris had peered longingly into the windows of flower shops, at the display of hot-house blooms, orchids, roses, gardenias, etc., on her way to and from her labours, but never in her life had she found herself in the midst of such an intoxicating profusion of blossoms of every kind, colour, and shape, ranged upon the footpaths and filling stalls and stands of the Flower Market within sight of the twin towers of Notre-Dame.

Here were streets that were nothing but a ma.s.s of azaleas in pots, plants in pink, white, red, purple, mingling with huge bunches of cream, crimson, and yellow carnations. There seemed to be acres of boxes of pansies smiling up into the sun, blue irises, red roses, and huge fronds of gladioli forced into early bud in hot-houses.

There were many plants and flowers Mrs Harris did not even know the name of, small rubbery-looking pink blooms, or flowers with yellow centres and deep blue petals, every conceivable kind of daisy and marguerite, bushy-headed peonies and, of course, row upon row of Mrs Harris's own very dearest potted geraniums.

But not only were her visual senses enthralled and overwhelmed by the ma.s.ses of shapes and colours, but on the soft breeze that blew from the Seine came as well the intoxication of scent to transport the true lover of flowers into his or her particular heaven, and such a one was Mrs Harris. All the beauty that she had ever really known in her life until she saw the Dior dress had been flowers. Now, her nostrils were filled with the scent of lilies and tuberoses. From every quarter came beautiful scents, and through this profusion of colour and scent Mrs Harris wandered as if in a dream.

Yet another familiar figure was promenading in that same dream, none other than the fierce old gentleman who had been Mrs Harris's neighbour at the Dior show and whose name was the Marquis de Cha.s.sagne, of an ancient family. He was wearing a light brown spring coat, a brown homburg, and fawn-coloured gloves. There was no fierceness in his face now and even his tufted wild-flung eyebrows seemed at peace as he strolled through the lanes of fresh, dewy blossoms and breathed deeply and with satisfaction of the perfumes that mounted from them.

His path crossed that of the charwoman, a smile broke out over his countenance, and he raised his homburg with the same gesture he would have employed doffing it to a queen. 'Ah,' he said, 'our neighbour from London who likes flowers. So you have found your way here.'

Mrs Harris said: 'It's like a bit of 'eaven, ain't it? I wouldn't have believed it if I 'adn't seen it with me own eyes.' She looked down at a huge jar bulging with crisp white lilies and another with firm, smooth, yet unopened gladioli with but a gleam of mauve, crimson, lemon, or pink showing at the stalks to indicate what colours they would be. Drops of fresh water glistened on them. 'Oh, Lor'!' murmured Mrs Harris, 'I do 'ope Mrs b.u.t.terfield won't forget to water me geraniums.'

'Ah, madame, you cultivate geraniums?' the marquis inquired politely.

'Two window boxes full and a dozen or so pots wherever I can find a place to put one. You might say as it was me 'obby.'

'epatant!' the marquis murmured to himself and then inquired: 'And the dress you came here to seek. Did you find it?'

Mrs Harris grinned like a little imp. 'Didn't I just! It's the one called "Temptytion", remember? It's black velvet trimmed wiv black bugle beads and the top is some sort of pink soft stuff.'

The marquis reflected for a moment and then nodded: 'Ah, yes, I do remember. It was worn by that exquisite young creature- '

'Natasha,' Mrs Harris concluded for him. 'She's me friend. It's being myde for me, I've got three more days to wait.'

'And so, with infinite good sense, you acquaint yourself with the genuine attractions of our city.'

'And you- ' Mrs Harris began and broke off in the middle of her sentence, for intuitively she knew the answer to the question she had been about to ask.

But the Marquis de Cha.s.sagne was not at all put out, and only remarked gravely: 'You have guessed it. There is so little time left for me to enjoy the beauties of the earth. Come, let us sit on this seat in the sun, a little, you and I, and talk.'

They sat then, side by side on the green wooden bench, in the midst of the sensuous colours and ravishing perfumes, the aristocrat and the charwoman, and conversed. They were worlds apart in everything but the simplicity of their humanity, and so they were really not apart at all. For all his t.i.tle and eminent position, the marquis was a lonely widower, his children married and scattered. And what was Mrs Harris but an equally lonely widow, but with the courage to embark upon one great adventure to satisfy her own craving for beauty and elegance. They had much in common these two.

Besides her geraniums, Mrs Harris remarked, she also received cut flowers from time to time with which to brighten her little bas.e.m.e.nt flat, from clients about to leave for a weekend in the country, or who received presents of fresh flowers and would make it a point to present Mrs Harris with their old and half-wilted blooms. 'I get them 'ome as fast as ever I can,' she explained, 'cut off their stems and put them in a fresh jug of water with a penny at the bottom.'

The marquis looked astounded at this piece of intelligence.

' 'Ow, didn't you know?' Mrs Harris said. 'If you put a copper in the water with wilted flowers it brings them right back.'

The marquis, full of interest, said: 'Well now, it is indeed true that one is never too old to learn.' He went on to another subject that had interested him. 'And you say that Mademoiselle Natasha has become your friend?'

'She's a dear,' said Mrs Harris, 'not at all like you might expect, high and mighty with all the fuss that's made over her. She's as unspoiled as your own daughter would be. They're all me friends, I do believe - that nice young Monsieur Fauvel, the cashier - it's his 'ouse I am stopping at - and that poor Mme Colbert- '

'Eh,' said the marquis, 'and who is Madame Colbert?'

It was Mrs Harris's turn to look surprised. ''Ow, surely you know Madame Colbert - the manageress - the one who tells you whether you can come in or not. She's a real love. Imagine putting Ada 'Arris right in with all the toffs.'

'Ah, yes,' said the marquis with renewed interest, 'that one. A rare person, a woman of courage and integrity. But why poor?'

Mrs Harris waggled her rear end more comfortably into the bench to enjoy a jolly good gossip. Why, this French gentleman was just like anybody else back home when it came to interest in t.i.tbits about other people's trouble and miseries. Her voice became happily confidential as she tapped him on the arm and answered: ' 'Ow, but of course you wouldn't know about her poor 'usband.'

'Oh,' said the Marquis, 'she has a husband then? What is the difficulty, is he ill?'

'Not exactly,' replied Mrs Harris. 'Madame Colbert wouldn't dream of telling anybody about it but, of course, she's told me. A woman who's buried a husband as I 'ave can understand things. Twenty-five years in the same office 'e was- '

'Your husband?' asked the marquis.

'No, no, Madame Colbert's, the brains of his office he is. But every time he comes up for a big job they give it to some count or some rich man's son until his 'eart is near broken and Madame Colbert's too.'

The marquis felt a curious tingling at the base of his scalp as a faint glimmer of light began to dawn. Mrs Harris's voice for a moment mimicked some of the bitterness contained in that of Mme Colbert's as she said: 'There's another chance for him now and no one to speak up for him or give him a 'and. Madame Colbert's crying her poor dear eyes out.'

A little smile that was almost boyish illuminated the stern mouth of the old marquis. 'Would Madame Colbert's husband by any chance have the name of Jules?'

Mrs Harris stared at him in blank amazement, as though he were a magician. 'Go on!' she cried, ' 'ow did you you know? That's 'is name, Jules, do you know him? Madame Colbert says 'e's got more brains in his little finger than all the rest of them in their striped pants.' know? That's 'is name, Jules, do you know him? Madame Colbert says 'e's got more brains in his little finger than all the rest of them in their striped pants.'

The marquis suppressed a chuckle and said: 'Madame Colbert may be right. There can be no question as to the intelligence of a man who has the good sense to marry such a woman.' He sat in silent thought for a moment and then fishing into an inside pocket produced a card case from which he extracted a finely-engraved card and wrote on the back a brief message with an old-fashioned fountain pen. He waved the card dry and then presented it to Mrs Harris. 'Will you remember to give this to Madame Colbert the next time you see her.'

Mrs Harris inspected the card with unabashed interest. The engraved portion read 'Le Marquis Hypolite de Cha.s.sagne, Conseiller Extraordinaire au Ministere des Affaires etrangeres, Quai d'Orsay,' which meant nothing to her except that her friend was a n.o.b with a t.i.tle. She turned it over, but the message thereon was scribbled in French and she did not understand that either. 'Right-o,' she said, 'I've got a 'ead like a sieve, but I won't forget.'

A church clock struck eleven. 'Lor'!' she exclaimed, 'I 'aven't been watching the time. I'll be lyte for me fitting.' She leaped up from the bench, cried: 'So long, ducks, don't forget to put the penny in the jug for the flowers,' and was off. The marquis remained sitting on the bench in the sun looking after her, an expression of rapt and total admiration on his face.

During Mrs Harris's fitting that morning Mme Colbert dropped into the cubicle to see how things were going and a.s.sisted the seamstress with a hint here and a suggestion there when Mrs Harris suddenly gave a little shriek. 'Lumme! I almost forgot. 'Ere 'e said I was to give you this.' She secured her ancient handbag, rummaged in it and finally produced the card and handed it to Mme Colbert.

The manageress turned first red and then deathly pale as she examined the paste-board and the message on the reverse. The fingers holding the card began to shake. 'Where did you get this?' she whispered. 'Who gave it to you?'

Mrs Harris looked concerned 'The old gent. The one that was sitting next to me with the red thing in 'is b.u.t.ton'ole that day at the collection. I met 'im in the Flower Market and 'ad a bit of a chat with 'im. It ain't bad news, is it?'

'Oh, no, no,' murmured Mme Colbert, her voice trembling with emotion and hardly able to hold back the tears. Suddenly and inexplicably she went to Mrs Harris, took her in her arms and held her tightly for a moment. 'Oh, you wonderful, wonderful woman,' she cried, and then turned and fled from the cubicle. She went into another booth, an empty one, where she could be alone to put her head down upon her arms and cry unashamedly with the joy of the message which had read: 'Please ask your husband to come to see me tomorrow. I may be able to help him - Cha.s.sagne.'

ON the last night of Mrs Harris's magical stay in Paris, M. Fauvel had planned a wonderful party for her and Natasha, an evening out with dinner at the famous restaurant 'Pre Catalan' in the Bois de Boulogne. Here in the most romantic setting in the world, seated in the open-air beneath the spreading boughs of a venerable hundred-and-sixty-year-old beech tree, illuminated by fairy lights strung between the leafy branches, and with gay music in the background, they were to feast on the most delicious and luxurious of foods and drink the finest wines that M. Fauvel could procure. the last night of Mrs Harris's magical stay in Paris, M. Fauvel had planned a wonderful party for her and Natasha, an evening out with dinner at the famous restaurant 'Pre Catalan' in the Bois de Boulogne. Here in the most romantic setting in the world, seated in the open-air beneath the spreading boughs of a venerable hundred-and-sixty-year-old beech tree, illuminated by fairy lights strung between the leafy branches, and with gay music in the background, they were to feast on the most delicious and luxurious of foods and drink the finest wines that M. Fauvel could procure.

And yet, what should have been the happiest of times for the three started out as an evening of peculiar and penetrating sadness.

M. Fauvel looked distinguished and handsome in dinner jacket in the lapel of which was the ribbon of the military medal he had won. Natasha had never looked more ravishing in an evening dress of pink, grey, and black, cut to show off her sweet shoulders and exquisite back. Mrs Harris came as she was except for a fresh, somewhat daringly peek-a-boo lace blouse she had bought with some of her remaining English pounds.

Her sadness was only an overlay on the delight and excitement of the place and the hour, and the most thrilling thing of all that was to happen tomorrow. It was due to the fact that all good things must come to an end and that she must be leaving these people of whom in a short time she had grown so extraordinarily fond.

But the unhappiness that gripped M. Fauvel and Mlle Pet.i.tpierre was of heavier, gloomier, and thicker stuff. Each had reached the conclusion that once Mrs Harris departed, this idyll which had brought them together and thrown them for a week into one another's company, would be at an end.

Natasha was no stranger to the 'Pre Catalan'. Countless times she had been taken there to dine and dance by wealthy admirers who meant nothing to her, who held her clutched to them in close embrace upon the dance floor and who talked interminably of themselves over their food. There was only one person now she wished to dance with ever again, whom she desired to hold her close, and this was the unhappy-looking young man who sat opposite her and did not offer to do so.

Ordinarily in any country two young people have little difficulty in exchanging signals, messages, and eventually finding one another, but when in France they have emerged, so to speak, from the same cla.s.s and yet are still constrained by the echoes of this cla.s.s strange obstacles can put themselves in the way of an understanding. For all of the night, the lights, the stars, and the music, M. Fauvel and Mlle Pet.i.tpierre were in danger of pa.s.sing one another by.

For as he gazed upon the girl, his eyes misty with love, M. Fauvel knew that this was the proper setting for Natasha - here she belonged amidst the light-hearted and the wealthy. She was not for him. He had never been to this colourful restaurant before in the course of the modest life he led and he was now more than ever convinced that it was only because of Madame Harris that Natasha endured him. He was aware that a curious affection had grown up between that glamorous creature, Dior's star model, and the little cleaning woman. But then he had grown very fond of Mrs Harris himself. There was something about this Englishwoman that seemed to drive straight to the heart.